Anything If Not Loving
by lamp-of-hetalia
Summary: Hungary uses Prussia for stress-relieving sex. PruHun. Allusions to sexual acts. Depression warning. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluffy ending.


PruHun "Anything If Not Loving"

She lay beside him, chest heaving and skin flushed, staring at the ceiling. Sweat covered both of their bodies.

"Ngh." She sat up, pulled her light brown hair into a loose bun, and tugged her tank-top (which was hanging off the side of the bed after being hastily discarded earlier) back on. Gilbert watched through half-lidded eyes, pretending to have already fallen asleep, when she laid back down and settled her head onto his other pillow. An hour passed and he remained that way, silently observing what could never be his. In truth, he wondered why she stayed the night. Of course, he knew the answer to that. She had class in the morning and his apartment was closer to campus than hers. Elizaveta was always practical, always her pragmatic self, except when she wasn't. Stress tended to eat away at her, and wear down her mind to the point of rotting. He knew when it got to be too much he would get a knock on his door. Not that he was a confidant, no, at least not through the medium of words.

She would knock softly at first, as if second-guessing her need to be there. If he took longer than a minute or two there would be a second round of knocking, this one more aggressive and hungry than the last. Patience never was one of her virtues. He would open the door, acting as though he was surprised when she burst through, grabbing his hand as she stalked past him. She knew exactly where to go, and she never really asked him anymore if he was alright with this. There were always bags under her eyes and a dull lacquer about her skin. Her hands would make quick work of his clothing and hers and she always wanted to get it over with quickly. He always wanted to prolong it; taking her hands in his as he laid her down on the bed. His lips would meet hers and their motives would be different, their passions as dissimilar as two drops of rain: his of a drizzle and hers of a hurricane. Gilbert would move slowly and Elizaveta would grow impatient again, pulling him down to whisper in his ear, "Hurry up and fuck me."

They would dance through the sheets, with practiced steps and skillful touches. Her nails would claw at his shoulders, though those lips never said his name. He could feel everything she had built up over the past week or so release as he made love to her. The internal rot would reverse behind her eyes as she escaped her external pressures. Then, once every ounce of tension had made its way from her, after they both had gone to the edge of bliss, Gilbert would lie down and watch as she pulled on her tank top and put her hair in a bun. She would lie down next to him and he knew he wasn't allowed to touch her anymore. That was part of the original, somewhat unspoken agreement.

_His arms circled around her waist as they laid there in the afterglow of the first. She turned to face him and he expected a smile, a kiss, a slight indication that she returned his affection._

"_What are you doing?" She sounded annoyed._

"_I…Well," He had started but stopped. She pulled away and came to lie a foot from him, the distance deafening and the implication behind it soul-wrenching. 'I'm not looking for a relationship,' he recalled that she had said that earlier that day. So what exactly was this? As the ever-present coward masked behind a pompous façade, he failed to ask that time. And the next, and the next, and so on._

The cycle repeats, as cycles often do. Every week he would lie beside her and watch her breathe, watch her sleep _alone_ when he is less than a foot away would tear at him. It rips at his heart and overruns his thoughts. Why couldn't it be him? Why did it have to be him? Internally he struggles between the two, of wondering why she can't be his or wondering why she had chosen him.

The mornings aren't awkward, as one might assume. She makes breakfast, typically some variation of eggs and toast, and they sit and eat at the table in a comfortable silence. Or at least, it seems that it's comfortable for her. He can't help but wish this was their everyday morning, not just a once-a-week obligation held after a night of slight regret (for him, at least). Elizeveta gets ready quickly and heads off to class, her Anatomy 2205 class, if Gilbert remembers correctly. He waves goodbye from the doorway and tells her to be careful, then shuts the door and goes to sit back down at the table. It's 7:50 a.m. when she leaves on those mornings and it's about 9:10 a.m. when Gilbert swallows his self-pity and takes the dishes to the sink. Those mornings are hard, though not the hardest. The morning after that is always the hardest: waking up to a bed that's empty, save for himself, and making a bowl of cereal that scratches its way down his throat.

It has been about six months since this began and this week was no different. He lies there, watching her ribcage expand under that viridian green tank-top that left nothing to the imagination. There is a catch in his throat, as there always is, and a deep-seated hatred forming at the back of his eyes, begging to be released in tears. But there was something off, a searing heat rising in his chest and a nervous titter in the pit of his stomach: courage. With the valor of the proudest of soldiers, he slowly wiggled his way over to her, closing the gap, and gently placed an arm around her. It felt nice, being close to her, being able to touch her gently without any protest, as he had become so accustomed. He kissed her shoulder lightly, as not to wake her, and stayed like that for a while. An hour, two hours, passed and he sighed. He couldn't stay like this; he withdrew and turned over, refusing to look upon her anymore that night.

When the next week came, and she was comfortably within the realm of dreams, he placed his arm around her again. This too, became a recurring gesture, part of the cycle, and cycles repeat, as they always do. With his arm wrapped warmly around her waist, holding her, protecting her, he could almost imagine what it would be like if she were awake and this were willing. She might snuggle up to him and kiss his neck, smiling in a relaxed and comfortable way before drifting off. He closed his eyes and inhaled; she smelled of old paper and sweat. It was a dream that kept him going and he didn't want it to end. Every week he withdrew his arms in a hope that one day he'd get up the courage to stay like this. To admit to her that he wasn't alright with how things were, with how things _are._ One day he would tell her and one day she would listen.

There is nothing Gilbert loved more than Elizaveta. There was nothing that hurt him more than Elizaveta. He knew what he was doing was wrong, he knew he didn't have her permission to touch her like this, and he knew that if she ever found out she would be beyond furious. And she would have a right to be. Because this was wrong, beyond wrong, he was an awful human being. He could recognize that what he was doing was wrong and he did not stop himself. Gilbert closed his eyes, his arms loosening around Elizaveta's waist. He couldn't keep doing this.

This is the third time she's knocked in five minutes. He could hear it and he wasn't moving. He wasn't going to answer the door. He wasn't going to do it. He wouldn't. He _couldn't._ She knocked for a fourth time, Gilbert could practically see her checking her watch and glaring at the door. But he wasn't moving, no, he couldn't. _He couldn't._

"Gilbert?" He heard the door open. Oh god, he'd forgotten to lock the door. The door clicked shut and he could hear her footsteps getting closer. What could he tell her? That he didn't want to do this anymore? That he couldn't do this anymore because he loved her? She would run. She would run and he would never talk to her again. That would be more painful than this, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it?

"Gilbert? Why didn't you come to the door? " She stood in the doorway of his living room, hands resting lightly on the door frame. He turned toward her, a smile placed precariously on his face.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you. Did you wait long?" He stood and made his way over to her. There was no way to deny her. Elizaveta wrapped her hand around his, headed off to the bedroom, and he put up no protest.

"She has no right to do this to you. You have to tell her that you don't want to do it anymore." Francis was draped across his couch, forearm shielding his eyes. Antonio was in the chair adjacent, trying to balance a pencil on his lip. Gilbert was in the kitchen, grabbing another bottle of wine and a case of beer. It was their weekly trio meeting where they hung around and consumed alcohol.

"You know he won't! Gil's too scared to do that stuff." The Spaniard laughed and Gilbert threw him a beer.

"Oh shut up, like you two are any better." Gilbert plopped down in his other armchair, popping open his beer.

"Oh! We are, mon ami. Antonio got that little Italian boy to go to dinner with him, _finally._" Francis sat up and poured himself some more wine, smiling at Antonio.

"And Francis got Arthur to move in with him." Antonio took a long swig of his beer.

"You got Arthur—the man who would yell at you for trying to hold his hand in public—to move in with you?"

"Yeah, he went up to him and was like, 'Yo Eyebrows, I'm in love with you, move in with me.' And Eyebrows said yes."

"It was a little more complicated than that. He said no at least five times."

"How exactly did you convince him then?" Gilbert didn't really care at the moment, but he felt he should ask.

"Well, I flat-out asked him to move in with me and he said no, got angry and tried to leave, but I wouldn't let him. I made him explain why he wouldn't and we finally got to the root of the problem." Francis was looking off into the distance, as if he weren't really there at the moment.

"The root of the problem?"

"He told me that he didn't think I was serious; he thought I was playing a joke on him. It took me a while to convince him that I wasn't playing a joke on him."

"Oh." Gilbert was vaguely disappointed and he didn't know why. Maybe he'd wanted it to be a bit more similar to his situation, to somehow give him an idea on what he should do about Elizaveta.

Francis seemed to read his thoughts. "Gilbert, you need to tell her."

She was knocking again and he'd made sure that he locked the door. He'd never been one to confront his problems; he ran away, he avoided them, and he almost never solved them directly. She was a problem and he was going to solve it, but not directly. Elizaveta would have to get tired and go home eventually. She had class in the morning and there was no way she would stay outside in the heat for very long.

"Gilbert!" He could hear her calling for him. He wasn't moving. No, he wasn't giving in. All he wanted to do was get close to her and she was further away than she ever had been before. Eternally out of his reach, it seemed. His phone was buzzing now. He let it ring.

"Gilbert! I know you're home!" No, he really wasn't home. He couldn't be at home in a place that reminded him so much of her. His own apartment had become foreign to him.

"Gilbert! Are you alright?" He wasn't alright. He could never be alright. Not when she was so close and so, so far away.

"I'm worried!" He knew she wasn't really worried about him. She couldn't be. He was nothing to her. He would never be anything to her. She would leave soon. Gilbert was sure of it.

Gilbert had been relieved when she left and terribly surprised when she showed up the next day, pounding incessantly on his door again. Luckily, he'd locked his door so she couldn't just burst in like he knew she wanted to. He had waited her out again, and she'd come back the next day at the same time. As with most things in his life, it became a cycle. It had been a week since he stopped letting her in, a week since he had seen her. She was at his front door again, knocking and knocking and yelling and carrying on. But he wasn't going to let her in.

"God damnit Gilbert! Open the door!" He'd upset her and it hurt. His chest throbbed faintly, a reminder that he still cared about her. He would never stop caring about her. But it was better now. Not seeing her was better than being next to her and not allowed to touch her.

"Gilbert, please. At least pick up your phone. I don't...I...I'm sorry." She was getting desperate. It hurt. The throbbing in his chest got louder, more painful. He couldn't keep doing this, but he couldn't let her in either. There was no winning. His phone rang in his hand and he stared at it. He shouldn't—but the throbbing was in his ears now, pounding and pounding away until it nearly drowned out her calling his name. Half of him just wanted to go out there and smile, laugh it off with a big grin and say it was all a mistake. Apologize to her and resume what they had been doing. He swiped his finger across the touch screen, answering the call.

"Hello." His voice was weak.

"Gilbert! Where in the world have you been? I've been worried sick." Her voice was strong and aggressive. Gilbert stayed silent. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't like he could just tell her that he had been ignoring her for no reason.

"Gilbert, please let me in," she sounded out of breath, "I want—I need to talk to you."

"I can't." His breath caught in his throat. This is what he was trying to avoid: this talk.

"You can. I know you're home. I can hear you talking through the door. Let me in. Please."

"Eli, I can't. I just can't."

"I will break down this god damn door if you don't let me in, Gilbert."

"You will not." Gilbert got up anyway and walked over to the door, hanging up his phone in the process. His fingers fumbled with the lock but he finally managed to get the door open. Elizaveta smiled when she saw him and he tried to return it, forming a small, sad smile of his own. She looked tired and he felt bad for making her worry about him. Her hand closed around his, leading him inside, and he felt a little part of himself break. There was no way she cared about him, and he knew that. She was an unstoppable force that always got what she wanted no matter the consequences. But he still loved her. It was silly really, he hurt so much and all he could focus on was her hand holding his. He'd known she hadn't wanted to talk and he'd let her in. The dream that kept him going also kept him complacent to what she wanted.

"You idiot, did you think you could just avoid me?" She was still pulling him along, toward the bedroom that he no longer recognized as his. Gilbert didn't answer, it would only hurt him in the end. They reached his bedroom and she sat him down on the bed, placing herself next to him. She made no move to unclothe him or herself, which was odd.

"Well? Did you think I wouldn't care?" Her hand was on top of his and it wasn't moving to take off his shirt.

"I don't know." He really didn't know why he thought ignoring her would work. His eyes were focused on the floor beside his feet, not particularly looking at anything, but avoiding looking at her.

"I was worried about you." Her hand squeezed his and he jolted, but he didn't look at her, "Gilbert. Talk to me, you've been acting weird."

"I wasn't acting weird. I'm...too awesome to act weird." Gilbert's voice stayed steady and he withdrew his hand from hers. This was weird. _She _was being weird.

"I'm not stupid. Tell me what's wrong." She tilted his head so that he would look at her and he almost leaned into the touch. But it wasn't meant to be loving, it wasn't meant to be caring, so he didn't.

"Nothing's wrong, Eli. I'm fine. I've just been busy all this week, I'm sorry for not answering the door." He turned toward her and kissed her forehead.

"Gilbert," She looked surprised when he pushed her back onto the bed and climbed on top of her. He didn't want to have this conversation; he would rather satisfy his purpose and go on with his life. When she started to say something, Gilbert pressed his lips to hers. It was rough and meaningless, but he didn't want to hear what she had to say, it could only hurt him. There was nothing she could say that would make him feel better, nothing within reason, at least. His hands lifted the hem of her shirt, tugging it up little by little. Her hands were clutching at his shirt, but she wasn't working to move things along. Really, with all of her accusations of him acting weird, she was acting pretty odd herself.

"Gilbert, stop!" She pushed at his shoulders and forced him to sit up, "There's something going on with you, and it must involve me, since you've been avoiding me, and only me. I had the unfortunate pleasure of talking to Francis and he said he'd seen you in the past week, so I know you've only been avoiding _me._ Now tell me exactly what's going on, or I swear to God I'm leaving."

"Leave then." The throbbing was back, it seemed to surround him. It hurt and he just wanted to be alone. He didn't want to see her right now, not when she was like this.

"Gilbert," She crawled over to him, touched his cheek, and he jerked away. They sat, unmoving for a good five minutes before Gilbert finally looked up at her. Elizaveta looked oddly serious, but then again, tonight had been a series of oddities. Her hands settled on the sides of his face and she leaned in. She kissed him and it was slow, willing, sweet, and when she pulled back she kissed him again on the cheek.

"I'm sorry." Elizaveta's voice wavered and she pulled him to her, awkwardly hugging his head into her chest. Gilbert could hear her heart pounding faster than it should have been. She was usually calm and collected during their encounters. What made this night different? Why was she sorry? She couldn't be sorry for hurting him; she didn't know she had. He hadn't wanted her to apologize, he just wanted to leave. Nothing could make this better, he was beyond hoping that she would reciprocate his feelings.

"Elizaveta, I want to be alone." He could feel her tense and he expected to be hit. But she just brought him closer.

"Gilbert, I'm sorry. Talk to me."

"I-" He could hardly breathe, "I love you." Nothing could keep it in anymore, not when she refused to leave. This would be the last time he'd get to touch her, he knew, before she ran away, and he wanted to hold onto it for a little bit longer. His arms circled around her waist, holding her as he had held her before, holding onto his dream for a while longer.

"I know." She didn't move away, as he had expected. She didn't run, she didn't hit him, she just stroked his hair and whispered, "I know." Maybe she could care about him, maybe she did care about him. He was breaking, this hope that was forming was breaking him; it was cracking the wall of denial formed through those months of shame and doubt.

"I like you, Gilbert. I don't love you," He could feel her lips move against his hair and his heart dropped. Ringing accompanied the throbbing in his ears, though he'd known this was coming. He still wasn't prepared, he didn't want to hear it. His chest ached and he could feel his face growing hot, tears forming at the back of his eyes and a silent scream pounding in his throat. There was a long silence until she spoke again, "yet."

"Yet?" He thought he'd misheard. There was no way she said that.

"Yet." She tilted his head up and rested their foreheads together. Everything seemed to stop. The ringing, throbbing, pain, everything, and Gilbert registered the silence that surrounded him. For the first time in months, he felt at peace.

"How was your day?" Gilbert patted the couch cushion next to him and pulled her into his arms when she sat down.

"Alright, my Stats professor was being a bitch though." Elizaveta laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes.

He smiled and kissed her hair, "Oh yeah, what did she do this time?"

"Pop quiz, followed by a condescending speech about how we should have known that there would be a _pop quiz._" She huffed, puffing out her cheeks and pouting like she did whenever someone did something of which she disapproved.

"Well, how did you do?" Gilbert knew she would get a good grade, but she would complain about it anyway and he didn't care. It was all the same to him.

"I'm not sure." That was a lie, and he knew it. He never could have dreamed this would happen: sitting on his couch, holding her, and no one was fighting, no one was moving toward his bed. The dream that kept him going had come true and was playing out before his eyes.

"I'm sure you did fine, because you're awesome. Though not as awesome as the awesome me." It came out louder than intended, and Elizaveta flicked him on the cheek.

"Shut up, idiot." She laughed and turned her face into his shoulder, "You're such an idiot."

"I know, but you love me."

"I know, I do."


End file.
